


making out is hard to do

by winkyjinki



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Beverly Marsh Knows Everything, First Kiss, I'm Bad At Tagging, Richie Tozier is a Little Shit, School Dances, Stanley Uris is baby, Valentine's Day, anyways enjoy some fluff!, just a little bit, slight jealous stan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-19 14:29:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22712284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winkyjinki/pseuds/winkyjinki
Summary: With Valentine's Day coming up, Stanley Uris faces his biggest challenge since defeating an evil clown: getting his first kiss.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris
Comments: 6
Kudos: 88
Collections: IT ❀ Valentine's Day Fic Exchange





	making out is hard to do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunsetozier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetozier/gifts).



> Aaaaa first kisses always make me soft ;;;
> 
> title taken from...a Full House episode oop--
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

_Monday February 10, 1992_

At the end of the school day, Eddie, Stan, and Richie walk down the hall side by side wrapped in conversation before they meet up with the rest of the group outside. As per usual, Eddie is rambling on about his workload for the evening, casually interrupted by Richie to make his distasteful jokes. The role Stan usually plays in these after school conversations is rolling his eyes and the occasional ghost of a chuckle (only if Richie’s earned it).

“Fuck is that?” Richie questions mid-sentence as he backtracks, leaving Stan and Eddie mere steps ahead of him before they realize within that split section that he’s no longer between them. Almost completely in sync, they turn to find him standing in front of a bulletin board, inspecting one of the many flyers tacked onto it. What could possibly be so eye-catching that it’s torn _the_ Richie Tozier away from his own yammering?

Once Stan is close enough to decipher which poster Richie’s nimble finger is pointing at, he quirks his head to the side in curiosity as Eddie peeks over his shoulder to read off the paper. The tone he holds when dictating is heavy with confusion. “‘Derry High Valentine’s Day Dance’? Since when do we do those?”

Stan shrugs and opens his mouth so as to speak, but is swiftly cut off by Richie before he can even make a sound.

“Why, since the luv-sick mistah Ben Hahnscom joined the dance committee,” Richie muses in a horrible thick British accent that could easily be steps away from being Australian. Stan thinks that maybe it’s possible that Richie has actually been trying to do an Australian accent. Either way, it’s still very bad. And stupid.

“It might be nice,” Stan offers optimistically as the three of them continue to make their way down the hall. This warrants a scoff from Richie that he chooses to ignore. “Ben has a lot of good ideas.”

“Oh, like when he pulled a Sleeping Beauty on Bev and woke her up with a magic kiss in the sewers?”

“But it worked, didn’t it?”  
  
“Point taken.”

“Wait,” Eddie interrupts, “isn’t Valentine’s Day this Friday?”

As Eddie, Stan, and Richie push through the double doors of the main entrance, Stan catches Eddie quietly counting the days to Friday on his fingers.

_Tuesday February 11, 1992_

The minute the Losers arrive at their hidden clubhouse entrance, Richie immediately makes a run ahead of them to claim first dibs on the hammock. Cue immediate bickering between him and Eddie, as per usual, where Eddie complains that he doesn’t even fit in there anymore since his last growth spurt. Stan ignores the stupid, stupid pull at his heart when Richie teases Eddie to accuse him of having a crush on him and instead issues his regularly scheduled Richie-induced eye roll.

Over their commotion, the remaining Losers lower themselves into the clubhouse and retreat into their usual spots to begin their own conversation. Mike seats himself on the swing while Stan and the others settle into their respective corners.

“Did you guys see the new flyers Ben put up about the dance?” Bev starts up as Richie finally plops down into the hammock, much to Eddie’s distaste. The sudden attention onto Ben makes him smile sheepishly.

“I saw it. Don’t we usually just do homecoming and prom?” Stan inquires, setting his backpack beside him on his seat. He sees Bill and Mike concur with murmurs to each other before Ben speaks up in explanation.

“Well, yeah, but high school should be more fun, shouldn’t it?” He replies with a shrug that just says _Why_ not _have an extra dance?_ “I thought that maybe if we did more dances and after school events, more people would want to get involved.”

“I got a question, professor,” Richie interjects, making it just a bit too obvious that he is about to put in his two cents that nobody ever asks for. “Don’t you need dates to a Valentine’s Day dance? Isn’t that, like, V-Day law?”

“Yeah, how are we suhb-p—supposed to get dates so quick?” Bill chimes in. Stan remembers for the umpteenth time that he always forgets to comment on how much better his speech is getting ever since his mom got him that therapist. He dismisses the thought, telling himself that now is not the time to mention it. Ben stammers in an attempt to defend his case.

“I mean—“

“Why don’t we all go together?” Mike suggests, ultimately rescuing Ben from being eaten alive by what could have been an endless, pointless, interrogation. “Friends can be dates, right?”

Richie gags theatrically, making some smart comment on how it’s the equivalent of Eddie eventually ending up bringing his mother as his prom date. Stan resists the urge to grab his shower cap coffee tin and chuck it right at his head. Seriously, sometimes he doesn’t even know how he finds this guy appealing.

“Sounds good to me,” he agrees, just to try to balance the scale just a bit, since it seems Ben is being bombarded for simply trying to make high school fun and enjoyable. God knows they could use it. “We’ll all go together. Who’s in?”

Everyone’s hands shoot up accompanied by some nods and hums in agreement. That is, everyone’s hands except for Richie’s, who looks around the clubhouse to find that he is alone in his preference. Stan would have definitely pegged Richie as the type to want to go to a dance just to act like a fool in front of everyone for some cheap laughs, so this is a surprising turn of events. Richie groans, head lolling all the way back.

“Fine, but I’d better hear music from at least three of my favorite bands. Do your research, Benjamin.”

_Wednesday February 12, 1992_

As Stan walks beside Richie the next morning, he grips the handles of his bike so tightly to forget about the fact that his palms are sweating. Still, he figures it’s now or never as they approach the school grounds. He has to do it before Eddie can join them at the bike racks, before Bill catches up with them in the hall. Before it’s no longer private and leaves Stan with every reason to be embarrassed.

“So…do you wanna go to the dance together on Friday?”

And it’s out there. This question that took three quarters of all the courage in Stan’s body is finally outside of his mind and Richie fucking _snorts a laugh_ in response. “We _are_ going together, dummy. I got outvoted, remember?”

“Yeah, I know, I know. I just meant…” Stan replies, staring down at his shoelaces as he takes one step after the other. “…that maybe we could go together that same way that Ben and Beverly are going together.”

Immediately, in the midst of the silence between them and the chatter of students from afar, Stan swears he can _hear_ the gears shifting in Richie’s head when the dots are connected. _“Ohhhhh…”_ is what he utters, and it is so remarkable that the Loser with the best grades is this impossibly slow. All this expression expression does is bring out a lot of the embarrassment Stan was trying to repress to be able to pose the question in the first place.

“Sorry, um, forget I asked. It’s weird, I don’t even know why I—“

“Sure.”

“What?”

“Let’s go together. Like Ben and Bev. I’ll meet you at yours,” Richie concludes with a smile, leaving Stan dumbfounded as he walks ahead to call out to Eddie at the bike racks.

* * *

Before Ben surprised the Losers with their current clubhouse and primary hangout spot, they’d long declared the Quarry as such after the happenings of the summer of ’89. So, although it is currently a good thirty degrees in Maine, after the unexpected acceptance Stan has received from Richie, he called an emergency meeting at the Quarry with the rest of the Losers; and a poorly timed one at that.

On Wednesdays, Eddie and Ben have obligations to the track team, Mike volunteers at the Derry Library, and Bill has speech therapy. The only one who ends up showing is Bev, but he’ll take whoever he can get at the moment.

“So, are you and Richie gonna…” Bev trails off suggestively after she’s filled in on the situation and Stan’s nerves have been calmed. A sly smile that he can’t really read grows onto her face. He blinks quite cluelessly, sitting attentively as he waits for her to finish her question so that he can answer. All she does is giggle and take another puff of her cigarette. “You know.”

There’s a lot that Stan knows he has to do to get ready for the dance. For example, he knows he has to wear a tuxedo (a new one, because there is _no way_ he’s wearing his bar mitzvah tux) and get permission from his dad to use the car to get there. What he _doesn’t_ know is what Bev wants to know. For some reason, though, he has a feeling that she isn’t trying to ask if he and Richie are going to be arriving in the same vehicle. So, he shrugs.

Bev rolls her eyes in that loving manner that she does that makes Stan feel just the tiniest bit self-conscious that, once again, he is behind the rest of their class in the hormonal department. He watches her as she lightly swings her dangling legs over the cliff when she speaks again to clarify, “Are you guys gonna sneak off and make out?”

Stan chokes on his own spit. “What?” He hadn’t even thought about that.

“Yeah, dude, before all the good spots get taken,” she continues nonchalantly, ashing her cigarette onto the ground beside herself. Stan is already protesting.

“Oh my God, Bev—“

“You know, Mrs. Kersh always leaves her classroom door unlocked. It’s literally the perfect place; Ben and I always go there before—“

“Stop—Gross.”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Bev gives in with a playful giggle, hands up in the air in surrender. “You’re an under-the-bleachers guy.”

“Quit it!”

_Thursday February 13, 1992_

After school lets out, Stan offers to study with Ben in the library. It almost kills him not to tell him immediately that it’s for his own personal inquiries and not because his good friend could use some company since he always studies alone. Evidently, Stanley Uris is Not Good at Being Selfish.

About halfway into his trigonometry worksheets, he puts his pencil down and leans over to get close enough for Ben to hear his whispers. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

Ben hums absentmindedly in response, not pulling his eyes up from the book he’s taking notes from. Stan sighs in exasperation, eyes rolling probably to the back of his head. Maybe his eyes will get stuck back there.

“How do you kiss?”

And— _bingo_ —Ben immediately looks up from his books in complete shock. “Huh?”

“Bev told me that you guys always sneak off and make out in Mrs. Kersh’s classroom,” Stan recalls aloud, noticing the way this statement makes Ben’s cheek flush a faint pink. He shrugs, almost ashamed to say the next part out loud; but out of all of the Losers—himself included—Ben is the least likely to judge him for any aspect of his concerns. Still, he refuses to establish proper eye contact and confesses with his gaze fixed on month-old pencil markings. “I’ve never kissed anyone, and I think I might want to kiss Richie at the dance…But I don’t know how.”

Ben nods, taken aback but seeming willing to help. Stan sighs a big breath of relief after finally admitting the thought he hasn’t been able to shake from the minute Bev planted it in his head. “So,” he adds, “Can you help me?”

With a hint of a laugh, Ben responds, “Sure.”

_Friday February 14, 1992_

When the doorbell to his home rings, Stan rushes to answer it, calling out to his dad that he’s got it. And sure enough, when he opens that door, there’s Richie—all six feet of him.

“‘Sup, Staniel?” He chirps, a big metal smile on his face.

And boy, is Stan struck. There’s Richie Tozier, standing at his front door like he had done about a million times before; and his bike is leaning against the tree in Stan’s front yard just like it always is. But this time feels just the slightest bit different because Stan feels like his heart is lodged right into his throat. Richie’s hair is actually combed and neatly parted, and his suit is an actual tuxedo—not a tuxedo shirt, like he’d been joking about wearing for the past couple of days. Richie Tozier Actually Cleans Up Well.

Of all the compliments Stan thinks to say, what ends up coming out of his mouth is, “Your jacket’s swallowing you whole.”

“Not as much as Eddie’s mom swallowed last night, am I right?” Richie shoots back almost instinctively, hand suspended in the air for a high five. Instead of fulfilling his futile request, Stan wordlessly shakes his head in disapproval. With somewhat of a nervous chuckle (Nervous? Richie? What a sight!), Richie showcases his arms, which is the only part of his upper body that his suit jacket fits perfectly. “All the tuxes that actually fit were too short on my arms. I know your OCD ass would be distracted by it all night, so I made the executive decision to sacrifice showing off my rippin’ bod.”

Stan raises an eyebrow. “You could have worn a shirt with short sleeves under that.”

“Dude, it’s literally zero degrees out. You’re not that special.”

* * *

“Not that I’m not enjoying this whole _Mission Impossible_ -type quest, Stanny,” Richie says above a whisper from behind Stan, grip not faltering on his hand as he looks over the corner of the hall for chaperones or faculty. He really hopes that Richie doesn’t notice his hand is now beginning to sweat. “But where exactly are you taking me?”

Stan shushes him promptly, paranoid of getting caught and having to come up with a palpable explanation for why he’s sneaking around the halls with another boy—one that won’t get him in trouble. The closer they get to the classroom, the greater Stan’s urger to bail is; but still, he persists.

When they finally arrive to the door, Stan turns the knob—unlocked, just like Bev said it would be—and leads Richie in. Richie whistles upon realizing where he is.

“Whoa, Stan the _Man,_ didn’t know you were such a horndog,” he teases, “how long have you been dying to take a bite of me?”

Honestly, Stan has always wondered how Eddie handles constantly being the target of Richie’s stupid jokes and remarks, but somehow he feels okay being in that place for once. There’s the annoying pull at his dumb, sappy heart, but it’s a better feeling this time around.

Stan has always said that talking is what Richie does best, but at this moment, he needs him to stop and he won’t _stop_.

“You think people fuck in here, too? I mean, it’d be fitting because it _is_ biology, so—“

“God Richie, just shut up for once in your life,” Stan groans, interrupting Richie’s dumb banter by gripping the lapels of his oversized coat and pulling him in for a kiss that only lasts about five seconds. He counts it in his head— _one, two, three, four, five_ —, and when he pulls away, Richie is left standing dumbfounded and—dare he say?—speechless. It is is quite funny, actually. Maybe Stan would be laughing if he wasn’t fighting the urge to cower into his suit jacket like a wimp.

As a compromise to himself, he backs away a couple of steps, as if distance would make it hurt less if Richie reacts negatively.

“Th-That—,” Richie stammers, his finger pointing at Stan and then back at himself and back at Stan. He might be broken for all Stan knows. “What was that?”

_Shit. Shit shit shit._

“I’m sorry, I just—,” Stan croaks an apology. “Bev said that people kiss at dances and I didn’t know how or when to do it because you talk _so much_ and—and— I should have asked if you even wanted to…” He trails off, his hands fidgeting nervously. “Because I’m starting to think you didn’t want to.”

Between Stan and Richie lies about five feet and a harsh silence after Stan finishes talking. Richie is just standing there, processing. Staring at Stan.

“I’m sorry,” Stan repeats. “Please say something, Richie.”

Richie shakes his head in disbelief.“Fuck, Stanley,” he breathes helplessly as he treks over to close the gap between the two of them. Before Stan realizes what is happening, Richie’s hands are placed gently at either side of the nape of his neck, pulling him in for a second kiss. This one, _this one_ is what makes Stan see what he’s been missing out on as his eyes flutter shut.

For starters, this kiss is heaps softer than the first. Stan would probably classify the first kiss as more of a less glamorous mashing of lips. Richie’s lips move against his own ever so slightly, and, although he’s absolutely clueless on what he’s supposed to do, he tries his best to follow Richie’s lead. It feels kinda weird, and he doesn’t know what to do his his hands. How long are they supposed to do this for?

At the same time, though, if Stan forgets about all the technicalities, he can hear his heartbeat quickening in his ears as Richie continues to lead him into a sense of lightheadedness. _Kissing is really nice_ , he thinks. _Kissing_ Richie _is really nice,_ a separate voice in his mind corrects. It’s nice even though he can taste a hint of Winston tobacco on his breath that he can tell has been masked relatively well with spearmint.

He’s overheard from hallway conversations that kissing someone with braces almost always ends bad, but maybe Richie isn’t included in that population. Or maybe Stan is just naive since he doesn’t really have any past experiences to compare it with.

All too soon, he feels Richie pull away from him, and an embarrassing whine leaves his throat that he plays off as a clearing of his throat. He opens his eyes again and can see Richie’s usually pale face, just inches away from his own, freckled with pink during the however-many minutes they’d been kissing.

“Not bad. You could totally use some more practice, though,” Richie jokes, cracking a bit of a smile to break the tension. For the first time this week, Stan laughs in response, and Richie laughs along with him.


End file.
